The Girl Named Sherlock Holmes
by NightFuryofGallifrey
Summary: Another typical, boring day is shattered when Sherlock and John meet an 18-year-old girl with dark curly hair, and a purple shirt. A girl with a quick eye and deduction skills at least on par with the world's only consulting detective. A girl calling herself... Sherlock Holmes. No Slash. Rated T just to be safe.
1. 1: Bored

**A/N: **Hey, everyone! Here I am again with yet still another Sherlock fanfic. I've had this idea for a little while, and recently decided to pick it up thanks to my dear friend, epicfangirl10.

A lot of this dialogue (mainly Sherlock's) is thanks to another dear friend, sherlock'sthename (not on ). She's been absolutely fantastic in helping me with this! :D

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own Sherlock. Don't s'pose I ever will.

* * *

The Girl Named Sherlock Holmes

CHAPTER ONE: BORED

John ran up the stairs and flung the door to the flat open. "Sherlock!" he yelled, stopping right inside the door. "Not again," he groaned. "Mrs. Hudson is going to evict us."

Sherlock hung upside down off the sofa, his eyes closed. "I don't care." He raised his gun and fired at the wall just above John's head.

John ducked. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock pulled the trigger again, but the gun just clicked; all of the bullets emptied into the wall. He gave a huff of exasperation and threw the gun across the room without opening his eyes. It collided with a vase on the mantle, knocking it off.

John dove for it, just barely catching it. He set it back on the mantle gingerly, then turned to Sherlock who now had his feet propped up on the wall.

"Sherlock, seriously..." John sighed.

"Seriously Sherlock what," Sherlock mumbled.

John shook his head. "Nothing to do?" He took the gun off the mantle and dropped it into Sherlock's chair. He sat down in his own and picked up his laptop, opening it.

"Obviously," Sherlock scoffed. "I'm in the midst of a huge, wonderful murder case. I'm hot on the trail of the criminals, but I decided to take a break in the middle of it and lounge about the flat in my dressing gown and shoot the wall."

John rolled his eyes. "That was more or less a rhetorical question."

"Then why did you ask it?"

"Because... oh, never mind." John shook his head again and pulled up his blog, planning on ignoring his moping friend.

"Boredboredboredboredboredbored," Sherlock grumbled.

John looked up at him. "Then find something to do."

"Like what?" Sherlock suddenly flipped over and stood on the sofa. "There is nothing to do. Nothing. No crimes committed, no cases, no nothing."

"No nothing is a double negative, Sherlock. You must really be bored, you're making grammatical mistakes now." John tried his best to hide his grin as Sherlock huffed and grumbled something unintelligible.

A ring at the door of the flat echoed through the room. John looked up, relieved and hoping for Sherlock's sake- and everyone's- that it was a client. Sherlock flopped over onto his stomach and let his face fall into a pillow.

"Tell Mycroft I'm busy." His voice came out a bit muffled from the pillow.

John set aside his laptop and walked across the room towards the door. He shook his head. Why on earth did Sherlock think it was Mycroft? He went down the stairs, and opened the door... and found Mycroft standing there, leaning against his umbrella.

"Mycroft," John said, unable to hide his surprise- both at Sherlock's deduction, and Mycroft coming to the flat- a rare occurrence.

Mycroft nodded. "John."

John decided to completely ignore Sherlock's instruction to tell his brother he was busy. "Won't you come in?"

Mycroft nodded and followed John up the stairs.

John walked into the room, finding Sherlock in the same position as when he'd left.

"I told you to tell him I'm busy," Sherlock mumbled.

"I have a case for you, little brother," Mycroft said, sitting down in the chair John motioned to.

"Not interested. Busy."

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, for crying out loud, Anderson would be able to tell you aren't busy right now."

Sherlock sniffed, though whether in humour at the jibe at his least favourite member of Scotland Yard, or in irritation John couldn't tell.

Mycroft definitely looked irritated, but continued on anyway. "I expect you remember Baskerville?"

Sherlock snorted, head still in the pillow. "First you insist on badgering me even though I told you I'm not interested, and then you insult my memory."

John thought Mycroft's scowl was going to become permanent. John studied the elder Holmes brother and to his surprise, saw the slightest sign of bags under his eyes. He didn't need Sherlock to tell him that that was an indicator that he hadn't been sleeping well lately.

John wondered briefly if he had actually deducted something before Sherlock had. Since he hadn't looked at his brother since he had come up...

After a moment of tense silence, Sherlock asked, "What about Baskerville is depriving you of your beauty sleep? Or is the lack of sleep just a side effect of the new diet you're on?"

So much for that idea... John wondered for the umpteenth time if Sherlock could read minds.

If Mycroft had been irritated before, now he looked positively angry. Something that surprised John, because Mycroft usually kept a calm face. "I need you to investigate Baskerville."

Sherlock actually rolled over onto his side. "Why?"

"I have reason to believe that they are not reporting everything to the government as they are supposed to."

"And you want me to play the babysitter and go and check up on your little wayward child?"

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. "If that's the way you want to think of it; then, yes."

"Not interested." Sherlock flopped over on the sofa so his back was to his brother.

"Sherlock," Mycroft's voice had a hard edge. "Please."

John looked up sharply. Since when did Mycroft ever use "please"? Especially with his brother.

Sherlock let out a small laugh. "Very amusing, brother dear. Now just go away."

John opened his mouth to try to get Sherlock to see reason, but Mycroft stood. "Something is going on in Baskerville, Sherlock. All I ask is that you look into it. Should you choose to accept the offer, contact me and I will make every power available to me at your disposal should you need it."

Sherlock said nothing, just remained in his curled up little ball.

Mycroft turned. "I can see myself out, John." He walked down the stairs and a moment later, John heard the front door open and close.

John let out a sigh and turned to his bored and insufferable flatmate. "Sherlock..."

"Not interested, John."

John huffed. If Sherlock wanted to lay about the flat moping, fine. But he wasn't going to stick around for it. He stood and grabbed his coat off the back of the chair and started towards the door.

Sherlock popped his head up. "Where are you going?"

"Just because you're going to sit and pout in the corner doesn't mean I have to," John said.

"Pout- seriously, John!"

"Seriously John what?"

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh.

"If you want to stay here, fine," John said. "I'm going out for something to eat."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Angelo's?"

John nodded. "Fine."

Sherlock rolled off the sofa and walked towards John. John held out a hand. "Ah, no."

Sherlock looked at him in confusion. "What?"

"You may have gone to Buckingham Palace in a sheet, but I am not going to be seen with you in your dressing gown."

Sherlock looked down, then looked back up.

"I'll wait five minutes," John said.

Sherlock smirked and went into his room, coming out a few minutes later fully dressed.

John nodded. "Much better."

* * *

The girl kept her head down and walked past the two men standing on the sidewalk. The one, shorter and blond, was obviously a former military man... army doctor. She nodded slightly. Still doctor, though.

The other man nearly made her stop in her tracks. He was tall, thin (borderline unhealthily- eating problem? No... not weight conscious at least.) and had dark curly hair. His sharp eyes seemed to take in every detail of her as she walked past- something only she thought she was capable of doing.

The blond man also noticed her, but it took him a moment. She already walked past them when she heard him let out a small utter of surprise.

She stopped and turned around. She walked back to them and stopped in front of the men, staring at them coolly. "Something the matter, mate?" she snapped, pulling her long, dark coat tighter around her purple shirt. The cold evening wind whipped around them, ruffling her dark curls.

The blond man stared at her, his mouth open slightly, then turned to the man next to him. "Sherlock, she looks like... like you!"

The girl stiffened. "Sherlock?" She echoed, drawing her eyebrows together.

The man called Sherlock looked at her hard. "Brilliant observation, John." He hesitated a moment, then stuck out his hand. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance...Sherlock."

The tiniest of smiles tugged at the corner of the girl's lips. He was at least somewhat as observant as her. She reached out and shook his hand. "Likewise, I'm sure."

John continued to stare at her. "You... Your name is Sherlock, too?"

The girl gave him a smile that eerily looked like one of Sherlock's "people-are-so-cute-when-they're-stupid" smiles. "And a pleasure to meet you, Doctor." She extended her hand."And yes, that is my name. I'm Sherlock Holmes."

_To Be Continued..._


	2. 2: The Same Name

CHAPTER 2: THE SAME NAME

John started and stared at the girl. "Sherlock Holmes?" He echoed.

"Intriguing, isn't it?" Sherlock glanced at John. "She said 'Sherlock' like she'd heard it before or had some sort of connection. It's unlikely to be a friend or family member's name, because though it is a reasonably common last name it is a rare first." He turned back to the girl. "It is possible you've read John's blog, or seen the papers, but that's not probable because you showed no recognition before you heard my name."

The girl Sherlock looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "I suppose you want me to believe your name is also Sherlock Holmes, and you're some sort of private detective."

Sherlock's mouth twitched the slightest bit in annoyance. "Consulting detective," he corrected. "And yes, I am Sherlock Holmes."

"Consulting detective?" The girl smirked. "What, when the police have a problem they come to you?" Her smirk grew a bit. "I could tell you were arrogant, but congratulations, you succeeded my expectations. Not many people can do that."

John looked back and forth between the two, a confused look on his face. "Hold on, you can't both have the same name?"

The girl shrugged. "Why not? It's not a terribly uncommon occurrence for more than one person in the total population of the earth to have the same name."

"Yes, but..." John shook his head and glanced at Sherlock and back at the girl again. "But you don't just have the same name, you look the same. You look exactly the same." He looked back at Sherlock and cleared his throat awkwardly. "Um, you don't, I mean, I don't suppose it's possible that um... there's a chance you have a daughter?"

'Scandalized' was the best word John could think of to describe the look on Sherlock's face.

"John!"

"Sorry." John felt his face flush and he cleared his throat, coughing. "Right, sorry. It was a reasonable question though."

The girl's smirk widened. "Sorry, but no. My parents were Siger and Violet Holmes. I've never met this man in my life."

Sherlock stiffened. A flicker of surprise flashed across his face, then vanished. He looked the girl up and down. "Yet you look, talk, and even dress similar. All of which could be coincidental, but the name..." He paused and raised an eyebrow. "Talking to two strange men on the streets of London though you are obviously alone and being so bold about it is not a typical action of a teenaged girl. How old are you? 16? 17? Not quite young enough for me to be your father." He looked pointedly at John who flushed again.

"Oh, I know how to take care of myself," the girl said. "And I'm 18, if you must know."

"Carrying a British Army Browning L9A1 in your coat pocket, I imagine you can," Sherlock said. "Who are you, and what do you do?"

The girl smiled. "Oh, very good. I was right about you. You are clever. I told you my name- Sherlock Holmes. What do I do? Since I am not yet old enough to be a private detective, I have to settle for 'amateur', though I assure you I am much more intelligent than the majority of the so called detectives out there- consulting or otherwise," she said, putting enough emphasis on the word "consulting" so it didn't exactly sound complimentary.

Sherlock regarded her for a long moment. "Where are you from? Are you from London?"

"Originally, Yorkshire," the girl said. "I live in London now."

"Where?"

The girl looked at him hard. "You ask a lot of questions, Mr. Holmes. Why should I answer them?"

"Miss Sherlock," Sherlock said. "You made a remark a moment ago, several actually, which indicated you were uncommonly intelligent, or at least think you are. I have formed some of my own opinion of you; perhaps you can tell me what you can deduce of me?" His eyes held a genuinely curious look.

The girl looked a little irritated at being called "Miss Sherlock", but she nodded, sticking her hands deep into her pockets. "I knew you were in some sort of detective trade by the way you examined your surroundings. You have a nicotine habit, but you don't smoke, you use patches. You're a violin player, usually classical, not fiddle. You're a workaholic when you're on a case, hardly eating or sleeping, but you're not on one now. Though, you did just have one recently. You get bored easily, and quickly."

Sherlock nodded, looking pleased. "Speaking of eating, John and I were about to get something to eat. You're welcome to join us. John won't mind." He looked at John.

John shook his head. "I don't mind at all."

The girl considered this a moment, then nodded. "Alright." She smiled wryly. "Though, Mr. Holmes, I may be too old to be your daughter, I am definitely too young to be your date."

Sherlock's face was emotionless, but John caught the flicker of... not quite disgust... flash in his eyes. "I assure you, nothing was further from my mind." He shot John a warning look.

John tried (and failed) to turn a chuckle into a cough. The girl kept her smirk on her face.

"Right," John said, after composing himself, though his voice still held undertones of amusement. "We were just on our way to Angelo's. It's not too far from here."

"I know where it is, thank you," the girl said, giving him a look very much like Sherlock did when he thought John had said something exceptionally stupid.

John shrugged and the three walked in silence the couple more blocks to the restaurant.

A few minutes later, they were in out of the crisp December wind and seated at table near the back of the restaurant. Sherlock took off his coat and draped it over the back of his chair, revealing his button down purple shirt. "So, Miss Holmes. You've been acting rather defensive about our obvious resemblance. You're smart. I can see that, I'm not an idiot. Don't you find it a little out of the ordinary?"

The girl shrugged off her own coat and draped it over the back of her own chair and sat down. "Oh, I do find it out of the ordinary. But just about everything can be explained, given enough time."

Angelo came over to take their orders. "Just tea, thanks," Sherlock said, waving him off like he did when he was too caught up in something interesting to be bothered with eating.

The girl glanced down at the menu, but didn't order anything.

John sighed and shot Sherlock a disapproving glance and told Angelo they'd be ready to order in a few minutes.

The girl leaned across the table. "Now, I've told you what I can tell about you. What can you deduce about me?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You're obviously a violin player. The instrument itself is German made; you wouldn't settle for anything less if you're serious about playing, which you clearly are. Your fingertips are slightly spatulated from pressing on the strings, and there is a subconscious graceful curve to the fingers of your right hand with is common in violin players, especially in the little finger, from manipulating the bow. You don't play regularly though, in fact I might say you haven't in a while, because there is no impress under the left side of your jaw, which is the sign of a daily player."

The girl nodded. "So far correct. I haven't played recently because my violin was destroyed during a recent case."

Sherlock gave her a look as close to sympathy as he was capable of. "Then there's your coat. Similar to mine, but a little worse for wear. You wear it often, obviously; there's the tiniest bit of fray on the cuffs where they rub against your wrists, but there are three other tears I can see from here that indicate it's not only worn often but has seen some action. That coincides nicely with what we already know about your boldness and character. You're an amateur detective, you said, originally from Yorkshire with parents Siger and Violet Holmes. I think it's safe to say you have an elder sibling Mycroft who is involved in the government in some capacity. That last bit is only conjecture based on the similarities between us I have already observed. You get a little defensive when we ask about you, yet you seem interested in learning about us, while smirking at nearly everything you learn. That indicates you are at least as arrogant as I am. Am I wrong?"

The girl nodded. "Very good." She tilted her head to the side a little bit. "And if I'm arrogant, which I do suppose I am, it is only for the same reasons you are." She paused, then nodded again. "Now that we know more about each other, what do you propose we do?"

John cleared his throat. "Well, firstly, we are going to order our food and wait until it gets here, and Sherlock, you are going to eat something even if I have to force it down your throat. It's been too long. Again. And secondly, I can't call you both Sherlock, so we're going to have to find a new name, a nickname for one of you." John gave a little wave to Angelo, who came over to their table, flipping open a notepad and taking out a pen.

"All set then?"

Sherlock glanced up at him and back at John. "Actually, I don't think..."

John stared at Sherlock, a stern and steady look in his eye. "You're going to eat," he mouthed.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "You know what, I think I'll have a biscuit or something." He handed his menu to Angelo, ignoring John.

John turned his menu over to Angelo as well. "Why don't you make that a basket of biscuits, as well as the soup of the day. And I'll take the same soup as well."

Angelo turned to the girl, who shook her head. "I'm fine, thanks."

Angelo was off before Sherlock could protest his amended order.

The girl looked at John. "Now, if you don't want to call both of us Sherlock, why not Miss Holmes, as your friend is doing." She wrinkled her nose just the slightest, again reminding John of Sherlock. "Though I must say, I'm not particularly fond of it."

"Then do you mind if I call you something else?"

The girl shrugged. "I suppose not."

John considered a moment. "How about... Shirley?"

The girl looked disgusted, and out of the corner of his eye, John saw the same look mirrored in Sherlock's face. "Absolutely not," she said.

John chewed on his lip. "Alright, well... um... Sheila? What about Sheila?"

The girl drew her eyebrows together. "Sheila..." she repeated. "Sheila. That's not bad. I think it's alright."

John smiled. "Well, good, Sheila."

Sheila smiled back.

"Sheila..." Sherlock said, as if testing the word. "Alright then, Sheila. You asked what I suggested we do. I don't see any reason we should do anything, at least not yet. Answer me this, though; what do you think our connection is? It's impossible you are my sister, yet you share my birthplace and your family members bear the same names as mine. You can't call that mere coincidence unless you are willingly blind."

Sheila raised an eyebrow. "I most certainly do not consider it coincidence. The only explanations I can see with what information we have now is either one of us mimicking the other for what reason I can't think of, someone else is manipulating our lives for again, a reason I cannot see; or we are, in fact, related. Which I also consider at the very least, improbable. But certainly not impossible. I have no recollection of an older brother with the same name, but that doesn't mean one does not exist."

Sherlock grinned the slightest. "Going on the assumption for a minute that we are siblings. Why would our parents tell you about Mycroft and not me? Why would we share a name, and why wouldn't I know about you?"

Angelo reappeared with their food, but Sherlock subconsciously pushed it aside and began to stir sugar into his tea distractedly.

Sheila nodded. "All good questions. And it is possible that we are not related. It doesn't appear more likely than any of the other theories. But whoever said we had both of the same parents? Another possibility is that we are half-siblings."

Sherlock glanced at John. "You said your parents were Siger and Violet Holmes."

Sheila blinked once, momentary confusion flashing across her face. It flickered out as quickly as it had appeared, and she replaced it with her trademark smirk. "Paying attention. Good. Then we can rule out half-siblings unless our parents were lying."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John noticed the look on her face, and glanced at Sherlock, but if he had seen it too, he gave no indication. John decided to let it slide for now, but watched her closely over his mug of tea.

"Our parents lying... not unbelieveable," Sherlock said. He took a biscuit from the basket and toyed with it in his hand, appearing to barely notice it. "Have you had genetic testing done?"

Sheila shook her head. "Had no reason to before now."

Sherlock nodded, and they lapsed into momentary silence.

After a moment, Sheila spoke up, "I'm curious, Mr. Holmes. We have both deduced things about the other, but what else can you deduce about strangers without talking to them?"

"State of marriage is always easiest to tell. In married individuals, anyway; with adolescents or minors the state of their school-work is easiest. But I can tell almost anything you'd like."

Sheila didn't bother to hide her grin. "Well, then. Dr. Watson, why don't you pick out a patron nearby and we'll tell you about them."

John looked around the room, his gaze settling on a middle-aged woman sitting in the corner of the room by herself. "There." He nodded towards her.

"She's obviously just come from her younger sister's funeral," Sherlock said, hardly glancing up and taking a long drink of his tea.

John looked at the woman again. "And how can you tell that?"

Sheila nodded towards her. "The program sticking out of her purse. The picture on the front is of a young girl, and the name underneath reads 'Jane Doyle'. I know it is her sister, and that she is local, because I overheard the server call her by name earlier- 'Miss Doyle'. She is the only surviving member of the family; both parents are dead and probably have been for a number of years."

Sherlock twitched a little. He'd missed the program. "She's married. Has three sons, born in August, May, and February. She's wearing an old wedding band and her necklace has three birthstones in settings that would indicate sons, not daughters."

Sheila nodded. "Her youngest son's name is Arthur, who is an aspiring writer and or artist." She smiled at the baffled look on John's face. "There were hand colored pieces of paper folded as a book also inside her purse, next to the program. He gave it to her recently, probably as a consolation gift judging by the picture resembling his aunt on the front."

Sherlock tensed. He felt a little threatened, like he was having to defend his title as genius with a teenager. "She has no nail polish, which is a bit surprising taking the rest of her into account. This indicates she often gets her hands dirty, yet she has no calluses. From that we can deduce she bakes fairly often and doesn't paint her nails so that it won't chip off in the dough as she kneads it."

Sheila seemed to sense the competitive edge Sherlock was putting on. She bit back another smile as she waved her hand dismissively. "She bakes when she's overwhelmed or upset, and it is a type of distraction for her, as seen by the small smudge of flour on her sleeve. She wouldn't have baked in her dress clothes otherwise. Her cat is another great comfort to her, as evidenced by the white hairs on her black dress slacks. The cat was likely either a childhood pet, or a gift from her sister, or in some other way reminds her of her late sister. Otherwise she would, again, not have held the cat while in her dress clothes, especially when wearing black. The cat is a long hair, Persian most likely."

John looked back at the woman, then to Sheila in amazement. "That's fantastic," he said. "Anything else?"

Sherlock straightened up in his chair and sniffed. This is pointless, he thought. He didn't like John asking Sheila questions; he was supposed to ask Sherlock those things. "So, we've both proved we can do this stuff. The question is why?" He took out his phone. "There's a way to find out fast, if you'd like. Mycroft. You call yours and I'll call mine and we'll see if we get the same brother."

Sheila nodded. "Fine." She pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and dialed a number. She held it up to her ear and tapped on the table impatiently while the phone rang. After a while, she sighed in irritation and pulled the phone down. "He didn't answer," she said. "He's probably still put out with me."

Sherlock paused. A strange look played across his face. "You've had a disagreement, then. How long ago was this?"

John looked at Sherlock. He'd never seen that look on Sherlock's face before. He wasn't even sure how to explain it.

Sheila paused, looking like she was trying to decide how much to tell them. "About a month ago," she said finally. "Why?"

Sherlock didn't answer right away. She's eighteen... I was eighteen when...when we... He cleared his throat. "Um, you know what, just let me call him." He spoke quickly, as if he rather hoped the other two would forget what Sheila had asked.

Both Sheila and John watched him closely. It wasn't hard to figure out he was evading her question.

Sherlock stood up and walked a few feet away across the room, facing away from them and held the phone up to his ear.

After a few rings, Mycroft's voice came over the line. "Sherlock, what is it now?"

"Nice to talk to you, too, Mycroft. How've you been?"

Mycroft sighed. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"Listen, em...there's a girl here. She looks like me. She is just like me, Mycroft." Sherlock glanced back toward the table.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft sounded wearied.

"You talk to her then."

Sherlock walked back to the table. He held out the phone toward Sheila.

Sheila hesitated then accepted the phone. She held it up to her ear. "Sherlock..." An exasperated voice on the other end said. Sheila stiffened.

"Mycroft?" She whispered. How... but it can't... Sherlock's brother's voice sounded like an older version of her own brother.

John looked back at Sheila and saw that her face was white. He leaned across the table, concern in his eyes. "You alright?" he mouthed.

Sherlock sat slowly back in his own chair. "She does know him."

Sheila could hear the frown in Mycroft's voice; the frown her brother commonly wore. "Who is this?"

Sheila didn't answer. She pulled the phone down from her ear and pressed 'end' on the call. She set the phone down on the table and looked Sherlock in the eye. "I want to know what is going on right now, Mr. Holmes." Her voice was cold and her eyes held an intense look. "Who are you?"

Sherlock started pacing in front of the table, watching Sheila intently. "She knows him," he said again, looking at John. He was confused. That was rare for him. And it was now past annoying; it was frightening him. What if she was his sister? It wouldn't surprise him that his family had kept a secret from him, but why would they?

"Mr. Holmes," Sheila said, her voice trembling just the slightest bit. "Who are you? And why does your brother sound like an older version of my brother?"

Sherlock stopped paced and looked her in the eye. "Because," he said, "he is. Tell me, Sheila, what can you remember? When you were five you fell into a well and Mycroft pulled you out. When you were thirteen Mycroft made you angry by moving out. You made up then...but last month you had a bigger disagreement, didn't you?"

Sheila froze. Her chest constricted. She could see her hands trembling, but she didn't feel it. "It's... none of your business," she hissed between clenched teeth.

"It's very much mine. You asked who I am. I am Sherlock Holmes, Sheila...but so are you." His voice was quiet. "I fell into a well when I was five. Mycroft moved out when I was thirteen. When I was eighteen, we had a disagreement. Don't you see? We're the same." He looked at John, seeming a little dazed. "She... she's me, John."

_To Be Continued..._

* * *

**A/N: **_As with the first chapter, a HUGE shout-out and thank you to sherlock'sthename for all the help with this story, especially with Sherlock's deductions, and the bit about his past._

_I hope it won't take me too long to get the next chapter up, but I've got a few other projects that I need to be working on that take top priority at the moment. But I'm not stopping on this, or even putting it on hold. Just wanted to let you all know. :)_

_Enjoy!_


	3. 3: Impossible

**A/N:** Hey everyone! So sorry it's taken me so long to get this next chapter up! But now I should have time to write more, so hopefully it shouldn't be so long between chapters.

**Disclaimer: **I own only Sheila. The rest of the characters belong to BBC.

* * *

Chapter Three:

Impossible

Sheila shook her head. "That's not... No. You... can't. How can you be me?" She stood up abruptly, shoving her chair back. "That's impossible!" She hissed between clenched teeth. She grabbed her coat off of her chair and rushed out of the restaurant.  
John blinked, stunned for a moment. He looked over at Sherlock, but saw no answer in his eyes, only a slightly dazed confusion. John slid back his chair. "Sheila, wait!" He called and followed after her.  
Sherlock stood more slowly. He slipped on his coat and pulled his wallet out of the pocket, dropping the appropriate amount of cash on the table. He grabbed John's coat and draped it over his arm. He reached for his phone, which Sheila had left on the table, and paused. Hers lay next to his. He collected both of them and slipped them into his pocket and followed after the others.

John ran after Sheila, calling out after her. She didn't stop. She turned a corner, and by the time he got there, she was nowhere to be found.  
John stopped, panting, looking around the dark street. He leaned over and rested his palms on his knees, irritated that Sheila apparently shared Sherlock's long legs and and running ability. He turned and headed back towards Angelo's. The cold air nipped at him and he rubbed his hands up his arms in an attempt to warm himself.  
He found Sherlock standing on the sidewalk outside of the restaurant with his coat hanging over his arm. He extended it and John accepted it, slipping it on.  
"She's gone then?" Sherlock asked quietly.  
John nodded. "Yeah. I lost her. I'm sorry." He looked hard at Sherlock, trying to figure out what was going on inside his head. "You alright?"  
"What, me? Fine. Yeah, fine. Fine. I'm… fine." Sherlock spoke quickly, sounding the way he did when his mind was whirling, trying to come up with a solution. He started pacing up and down the sidewalk right in front of the restaurant, shoving his hands in his pockets. He stopped pacing and looked down, pulling a cell phone out of his pocket. He held it up so John could see. "She left her phone in there. Same model as mine."  
John started at it in amazement. "Sherlock… who _is_ she?"  
Sherlock stared back at John, but his eyes didn't seem to pierce through him like they usually did. His gaze held a slight dazed look. "What do you think? She has my memories. She looks like me. She's an amatuer detective; she's intelligent - unusually so…. it points to something unnatural. She has my _memories,_ John. The rest could be a coincidence, as unlikely as it might be, but… my _memories_." He fell silent for a minute, then scowled. "Oh, quit gawking at me, John! Are we going to try to find her, or not?"  
John nodded, and spread his arms out. "Well, where are we supposed to start? She couldn't have gotten too far…" He grimaced. "Unless she got a taxi."  
"She didn't get a taxi." Sherlock stared at the phone. He turned it on and the backlight light up his face in the dark.  
"How-"  
"I just know," Sherlock growled, not looking up.  
John raised his hands in a surrendering gesture. "Alright. So, where do you think she is?"  
Sherlock switched the phone off and slipped it into his pocket. "Ready to head back to the flat?"  
John blinked and stared at Sherlock for a moment. "Sherlock… what? I thought we were looking…"  
"She'll find us," Sherlock said. He stepped out into the street and hailed a taxi. John stood on the sidewalk, staring after him.  
Sherlock opened the door and slid inside. He looked back out at John. "Are you coming or not?"  
John slid inside next to Sherlock and closed the door. Sherlock stared out the window, and as he didn't seem to be interested in telling the cabbie where they wanted to go, John sighed and said, "221B Baker street, please."  
Sherlock said nothing the entire ride. John desperately wanted to ask him the questions whirling around in his mind; what was going on, why he'd suddenly decided to return to the flat, and most important - was he alright?  
The taxi pulled up in front of 221B. Sherlock opened the door and got out without a word. John stifled a sigh and paid the cabbie, then got out and followed after Sherlock, who had already entered the flat, closing the door behind him.  
John opened the door and walked inside. Mrs. Hudson stood in the hall, looking up the stairs, a confused expression on her face.  
John didn't bother to stifle his sigh this time. "Evening, Mrs. Hudson."  
Their landlady turned to him and smiled. "Good evening, John. Is everything alright with…"  
John shook his head. "I have absolutely no idea." He started up the stairs and walked into the flat.  
Sherlock perched on his chair, his elbows propped up on his knees and his fingers steepled. Sheila's phone sat next to him on the armrest of the chair.  
"Sherlock?" John ventured.  
Sherlock didn't respond.  
John bit his lip, unsure whether to press his friend, or to leave him alone. Normally when Sherlock got into a silent mood like this, it meant he needed to think. But this time… it was different. John could tell.  
This time… he couldn't usually see any emotion in Sherlock's eyes. But now… he could. He saw confusion. And… fear?  
John walked over to his chair and sat down across from Sherlock. He glanced at his friend, who didn't show any sign that he had noticed John come into the flat at all. John shook his head slightly. Well, he would be here for Sherlock, even if he didn't know he was here.  
Half an hour ticked past without Sherlock moving. John wasn't sure he even blinked.  
An hour. Two. Three. John was just about to give up and go to bed, when he heard the creak of a window opening in Sherlock's bedroom.  
John looked up, getting out of the chair. He glanced back at Sherlock, who again didn't give any indication he had heard anything. John walked to the stairs and called softly, "Mrs. Hudson?"  
No response. She'd probably gone to bed hours ago.  
Another slight rustle of noise from Sherlock's room. There was definitely someone inside. John cursed under his breath, and turned to face Sherlock. He waved his hands, trying to get his attention, but to no avail. He scowled, not wanting to speak aloud and let the intruder know he was on to him.  
He spotted Sherlock's gun lying on the mantlepiece. He walked over and snatched it. He looked inside, and scowled. Empty. But at least he could look like he was armed.  
John walked back over to the door and placed his hand on the door knob…  
And the door opened inward.  
To reveal Sheila staring back at him, face stony.  
John jumped back. "Sheila! What… what are you…"  
Sheila crossed her arms. "Good question. I've got a better one. What are you doing here?"  
Sherlock's voice came from right behind John. "We live here."  
John jumped and spun around, his heart racing. "Sherlock!"  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, apparently mistaking John's cry of surprise for one of reprimand. "What? We do." He turned to Sheila, staring her in the eye. "Why did you run?"  
"I came back for my cell phone," Sheila said, ignoring the question, but looking him straight in the eye.  
Sherlock held it up and handed it to her. She took it and examined it briefly, as if to make sure nothing had been harmed, then slipped it into her pocket. "Thank you," she said, her voice tinged with sarcasm.  
"I knew you'd come looking for it," Sherlock said. "Women have a ridiculous aversion to other people having their phones."  
"I do hope you realize it's incredibly rude to look through other people's phones," Sheila said, quirking an eyebrow.  
"It was password protected."  
"You could have figured it out." Sheila paused when Sherlock didn't answer. A grin spread across her face. "You didn't."  
"Why did you run?" Sherlock repeated.  
Sheila finally broke eye contact, her gaze wandering around the flat. She finally looked back at him. "I live here. I live at 221B Baker Street."  
John frowned. "But you… you can't."  
Sheila didn't look at him. "I can see that. I looked through your room, Mr. Holmes - what should be my room. There was no indication that it was mine. It most definitely is yours."  
"Then…" John was having difficulty keeping up again.  
"Then how do I live here? I don't know. All I know is that I do," Sheila said quietly. "I don't know why I ran. But I know I can't. I have to figure this out. So that's what I'm going to do."

_To Be Continued..._


	4. 4: A Tale of Two Sherlocks

**A/N:** Hey everyone! Yet again, apologies for not updating sooner. I've been having some problems with this story, but I think I'm starting to get them ironed out with the help of my dear friend, sherlocksthename. :) So hopefully I'll be updating more frequently from here on out.

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**Disclaimer: **All characters except Sheila are not mine. This is a fanfiction, after all. :P

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CHAPTER FOUR:

A TALE OF TWO SHERLOCKS

Sherlock nodded once. "Since this concerns both of us, I think we need to work together." He seemed a little embarrassed by the admission and quickly added, "To an extent. One condition is John works with me." He extended his hand for Sheila to shake. She did so, then they all lapsed into a long and awkward silence.

John broke the silence. "Well, standing around here all night isn't going to get anything done."

Sherlock nodded. "Right. We'll…"

"Go to bed," John said, his voice firm. "It's late, and you weren't sleeping much on the last case. You're going to bed, now." He glanced at Sheila. "Do you have a place to stay?"

Sheila shook her head. "This is my place to stay." She sighed. "Or at least I thought it was."

John nodded. "It is." He moved towards the stairs. "You can have my room. I'll sleep out here on the sofa."

A brief flicker of surprise flashed across Sheila's face. "I… Thank you."

John smiled. He heard the genuineness in her voice, as well as the surprise. He briefly wondered if anyone had ever been kind to her. He wondered if anyone had ever shown kindness to Sherlock. "You're welcome."

John showed Sheila her room and grabbed a few things, then went back down stairs. Sherlock had resumed his position in his chair, staring off into the distance. John shook his head. "No."

To his surprise, Sherlock looked up. "What?"

John pointed a finger at him as he unfolded his blanket and draped it across the sofa. "You're not staying there. You're going to bed."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John cut him off. "And if you say 'I'm not tired' like a five-year-old I will…" He searched his tired mind for a drastic threat. "I'll throw out all your experiments in the fridge."

Sherlock frowned. "You wouldn't."

John snorted. "Try me. Besides, I'm sleeping out here."

"John, honestly, if you think I'm going to disturb you…."

"You would, but that's not the point," John said. "Yes, I know, you probably won't say anything, or make any noise, but you're thinking and it's annoying." He turned his back to Sherlock, but not before he saw the brief flicker of amusement on his friend's face. He smirked to himself. Maybe quoting him would make him more likely to listen to him.

Sherlock stood up. "Fine. Goodnight, John." He walked over to his room.

"Goodnight," John said. He hesitated, then turned around. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked over his shoulder.

"Are you really alright?"

Sherlock said nothing, his hand on the doorknob.

"Because…." John struggled to find the right words. "I'm here if you need anything, you know that, right?"

Sherlock said nothing for a moment longer, then nodded once and slipped into his room.

#

John winced slightly as he stretched, trying to loosen his sore muscles. Sleeping on the sofa certainly wasn't the best for your back.

He glanced at the clock. Six-thirty. Sherlock most likely wouldn't be up for…

Sherlock's bedroom door open and he walked out, fully dressed with his coat and scarf draped over his arm. "Morning, John," he said, moving into the kitchen.

John blinked. Alright, so scratch that. He got off the couch and followed after Sherlock. "Good morning," he said. "What's the plan for today?"

Sherlock opened the fridge and looked inside, saying nothing.

John waited a moment, and after receiving no response, tried again. "Sherlock? What's the plan?"

Sherlock moved around some jars in the fridge.

John closed his eyes. "Sherlock. What. Are. We. Going. To. Do. About. Sheila."

No response.

John opened his mouth, ready to yell if he had to, but hearing footsteps on the stairs cut him off. Sherlock closed the fridge door and they both turned around.

Sheila stood in the doorway, her clothes slightly rumpled from sleeping in them.

John nodded. "Good morning. Sleep well?"

"Fine."

For a moment, no one said anything. John sighed inwardly. Was this how everything was going to go? "Sherlock and I were just discussing what we're going to do."

"John was discussing what we were going to do," Sherlock said, voice flat and face blank.

John wanted to bang his head against the wall. "Yeah, it did seem rather one sided to me, too. But now that we're all here, we can figure out the next step."

"Contacting Mycroft seems like the only logical thing to do at this point," Sheila said. Her voice, too, held no emotion, though her face held the slightest traces of weariness.

"I already tried," Sherlock said. "And I couldn't get a hold of him."

John looked at him. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock shot him an irritated look. "What I said. He's unavailable."

"Well, when is he going to be available?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock shouted.

John blinked in surprise.

Sherlock turned away, a scowl on his face. John glanced back at Sheila, but she had her arms crossed and was staring at the floor. John stepped over by Sherlock. He open his mouth, then closed it. He bit his lip. He wanted to ask Sherlock what was wrong, but he already knew part of the problem, and he knew Sherlock wouldn't answer.

"Look," John said, keeping his voice quiet so only Sherlock could hear. "I know you don't want to talk about it. But if you do, I'm here. 'kay?"

Sherlock said nothing.

John took a step back and looked back and forth between Sherlock and Sheila. They were both obviously disturbed by the other. He tried to think of something to say, something to do, but he just didn't know.

He was saved from having to do anything by Mrs. Hudson. She tapped on the door, coming into the kitchen. "Whoo-hoo. Morning, boys! I…" She trailed off. "Oh, I didn't know you had a guest…" She stared at Sheila, then looked at Sherlock. She blinked, and looked at them both again. "Oh. You never told me you had a daughter, Sherlock."

"I don't," Sherlock growled at the same time Sheila protested, "I'm not his daughter!"

The two looked at each other and scowled.

Silence descended again. John finally cleared his throat. "Mrs. Hudson, this is Sheila. Sheila, this is our landlady and friend, Mrs. Hudson."

"Pleasure to meet you, my dear," Mrs. Hudson said, extending her hand.

"Likewise," Sheila said, losing part of her scowl and shaking Mrs. Hudson's hand.

"Sheila's going to be staying with us for a little bit," John said. "She, um…" He tried to figure out an uncomplicated way to explain. He couldn't.

"Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson have offered to help me," Sheila said. "There are things in my past that are confusing and complicated, and I've enlisted Mr. Holmes to help me sort them out."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Well, you've come to the right place, dear. Sherlock is the best when it comes to solving things. He's so very clever, and…"

"That's enough, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said.

"Oh, alright, dear." She moved back towards the door. "I just wanted to let you boys know that I'm going over to my sister's for the day."

"Sounds good. Have a good time," John said, smiling.

Mrs. Hudson smiled back and gave a little wave before disappearing out the door.

And yet again another awkward silence fell over the kitchen. Sherlock and Sheila stared at each other across the kitchen, each of their piercing gazes piercing the other, and giving no indication of any emotion at all.

As John had apparently been elected the go-between for the two sulking geniuses, he spoke up, "John."

Sheila looked over at him. "Hm?"

"You can call me John," he said. "Not Dr. Watson. John makes me feel less old."

Sheila smiled. "Alright. John."

Over on his side of the kitchen, Sherlock huffed, plainly irritated.

John glanced over at him. He seriously wasn't irritated with Sheila calling him John, was he?

Before anything else could be said, a knock came from the door. "I've got it," John said. He exited the kitchen and went down the stairs to the front hall. He opened the door. "Lestrade?"

Lestrade looked up, a look of annoyance on his face. "Finally! You and Sherlock both shut off your phones or something? I even tried the landline, which they told me had been disconnected."

"Yeah, sorry, no landline anymore," John said. "Sorry, I must have left my phone in my room. I didn't hear it. Something wrong?"

"Depends on whether you're the murder victim, or Sherlock," Lestrade said darkly. "If you're the victim, yeah, something's wrong. If you're Sherlock, boredom's over and it's time to play."

"Not sure there's been too much boredom here since last night," John said. "But I bet he won't turn down a case now." He opened the door wider and stepped aside. "He's upstairs."

John and Lestrade went back up the stairs, and John led him into the kitchen. "Sherlock, Lestrade's got a case for us."

Sherlock and Sheila broke off their staring contest and turned to look at them.

John turned to Lestrade to ask him what the case was… then he saw the look on Lestrade's face as he stared back and forth between Sherlock and Sheila.

"What the…." Lestrade blinked. "Sherlock, I didn't know you had a daughter…"

"She's not my daughter!" Sherlock yelled, at the same time Sheila shouted, "I'm not his daughter!"

John bit back a smirk and cleared his throat. "Um, Greg, this is Sheila. She's a… friend."

Lestrade continued to stare. "Uh, nice to meet you."

Sheila scowled. "I'm sure."

"You said you had a case for us?" Sherlock growled, still clearly irritated that everyone seemed to assume Sheila was his daughter.

Lestrade shook himself. "Yeah. Squad car's waiting outside."

"I'll go call a taxi," Sherlock said pointedly, returning to the living room to grab his coat and scarf before brushing past Lestrade and going out the door.

Sheila and Lestrade faced each other, Lestrade continuing to stare, and Sheila continuing to scowl.

John decided he had better step in (again). "Sheila, you wouldn't be interested in coming with us, would you?"

Sheila looked at him. "If I'm bored, I'll leave."

John shrugged. "Fine. But Sherlock never takes the 'boring' cases anyway."

Sheila walked over to the living room to grab her coat, then went down the stairs.

Lestrade turned to John. "What…"

John shook his head. "I have no idea. Met her last night. She's nearly identical to Sherlock in every way, even has some of the same childhood memories." John paused. "Which probably means I shouldn't leave them alone too long, or one of the Sherlocks is going to… I don't know. Do something."

Lestrade shook his head. "And I thought Sherlock had stopped surprising me."

John half-laughed. "I don't think that will ever happen, for either of us."

Sheila and Sherlock didn't speak a word the entire ride over to the crime scene. When Sherlock had realized John had invited Sheila along, he shot John a look that made John fear for the peace and safety of the flat when they returned.

The other two's silence allowed John to try and sort out some of his thoughts. Last night, Sherlock had quickly gone from being intrigued by Sheila to - dare John say it - upset. Now, he was acting indifferent, closely bordering irritation with her.

Suddenly John regretted inviting Sheila along.

The taxi stopped and Sherlock and Sheila practically threw themselves out of the back of the cab. John stifled a sigh and paid the driver, then hurried to catch up with them.

John looked around. Yellow police tape stretched around in front of a music shop next to an alleyway. Lestrade stood waiting for them in front of the shop. Sherlock and Sheila walked briskly towards him with their long strides, leaving John a bit behind them. They walked nearly in stride with the other, neither one looking at the other.

Sally Donovan and Anderson stood a few feet away, discussing something. Both of them stopped when they saw Sherlock and Sheila. Donovan's mouth parted open slightly and Anderson stared.

John walked past them, nodding politely, to which neither of them responded, or even seemed to notice. Sherlock obviously noticed them, but ignored them. Sheila shot them an amused glance, as if asking what they were looking at.

Lestrade jerked his head towards the shop door. "C'mon."

"Hey, Freak!" Donovan called. "When did you have a kid?"

Sherlock whirled around, his dark coat spreading out behind him. "For the last time," he ground out from between grit teeth. "She. Is. Not. My. Daughter."

Donovan scoffed. "Right." She folded her arms. "How old were you? 15?"

Sherlock glared, but spun around and marched past everyone and shoved the shop door open, the bell tinkling gently as if in contrast to the frustration of the person who pushed it open.

Sheila shot one last half amused, half irritated look at Donovan and Anderson, then followed Sherlock into the shop. Lestrade glared at Donovan, but said nothing to her. John quicked his pace to catch up with him, then they entered the shop.

The only light inside the shop came from the front window and door. Instruments lined the wall, some knocked haphazardly on the ground. Sheet music littered the floor. In the middle of the small room, the body of a young woman lie on the ground, face down.

Sherlock paused, casting a brief glance around the room, then moved on to the body. Sheila walked around him to the other side of the woman's body. John and Lestrade stood a little ways back from them.

Sherlock pulled his gloves out of his pocket and slipped them on, at nearly the same instant Sheila did. For a moment they stared at each other, then both turned their attention back to the body.

After a minute of silence, Sheila spoke up, "When did you find her?"

"Just this morning," Lestrade said. "Owner came to open the shop, and found her here. No idea who she is. No identification."

"She was murdered," Sherlock said, not looking up. "About… would you say at about 4:03 this morning, John?"

John frowned briefly and knelt down beside Sherlock. After examining her body, he said, "She's been dead for about 2 or 3 hours I'd say. I can't place it that closely…"

"The watch," Sheila said, voice flat.

Sherlock shot her an irritated look, then pointed to the watch on the woman's wrist. "Glass shattered, with the time at 4:03."

"The watch could have been dead already, couldn't it?" Lestrade said.

Sherlock shook his head, but before he could say anything, Sheila said, "Citizen Eco-Drive watch. It doesn't take batteries; it converts light into energy."

Beside him, John felt Sherlock stiffen slightly.

"Alright, anything else about her?"

"Musician," Sherlock said. "Played piano, violin and flute."

"Whoever killed her," Sheila said. "Wanted something from her. Something that he or she assumed she was carrying."

Lestrade looked at her. "How can you tell that?"

"Someone was digging through her dress pockets," Sherlock said. "Roughly. One of the pockets is nearly torn off."

"They were also looking through her purse," Sheila said.

"What purse?" John asked. "I don't see…"

"Women almost always carry a purse," Sheila said. She stood up and walked a few feet away to where a pile of music books had been thrown off the shelf. She nudged the books aside with her toe and bent over to pick something up. She turned around, holding a small handbag. "And this one was so obviously underneath these books, I'm honestly surprised that none of you idiots saw it already."

John blinked, looking over at Sherlock, who had a dark look on his face. John tried to decide if he was supposed to be amused Sherlock was letting Sheila get to him, or concerned.

Sherlock stood up, and John did as well, moving back by Lestrade, who was watching Sherlock and Sheila with a barely perceptible smile on his face.

Lestrade leaned over to John. "Is it bad that I'm enjoying this?" he whispered.

John tried to keep a grin at bay. "Probably." He watched Sherlock continue to examine the woman's body, as if frantic to find another clue. "And I thought one Sherlock was bad enough."

Lestrade chuckled.

"Her attacker was a man," Sherlock said, speaking quickly. "And he was romantically involved with her."

"Did the men's cologne, or the fact that her engagement ring is lying a few feet away, near the purse, like she had torn it off in anger, tell you that?" Sheila asked, picking up a ring and handing it to Lestrade, who took it with a look of surprise on his face.

Sherlock's look turned darker. "The cologne," he admitted. "But I was just about to mention the ring."

Sheila smirked. "Of course."

Sherlock turned his back to her, facing the woman's body again. "She's from somewhere near Sussex. The caked mud on her shoes clearly show that." He moved around near her shoes and flicked a piece of dried mud off her shoes into his gloved hand. He held it up to the light. "Definitely Sussex."

"Marie Kelly, from Sussex. Age 24," Sheila spoke up after a moment of silence. "The attacker - her fiance - is Benjamin Kane. You're looking for a man with red hair, hazel eyes, about 5'8", and an athletic build."

Everyone whirled to face her. Sheila held up an ID card. "What? Forgot about the purse? First thing you should have looked for."

"Her boyfriend…" John started.

Sheila held up a cellphone. "Background picture of her with a young man. First number on speed dial - Benjamin Kane." She smiled and tossed the phone to Lestrade, who caught it, still surprised. "In fact, why don't you give him a ring now?"

Lestrade gave a chuckle of amazement. "This girl's nearly better than you, Sherlock," he said. He turned and walked out, calling to the officers outside, "We've got a lead, people!"

Sheila followed after him.

John turned to Sherlock, but his words died on his lips when he saw the look on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock stared at nothing in particular, his face the normal void of emotion. But his eyes… the look in his eyes, John had never seen before.

He looked hurt.

"Sherlock?" John questioned, keeping his voice low so he was the only one who could hear. "Are you-"

"Fine." Sherlock brushed past him and went outside. John hesitated, then followed.

Donovan looked up and smirked at Sherlock. "Your daughter's even better than you, huh, Freak?"

Sherlock didn't even bother to contradict her, just ignored her completely and kept walking. John gave her a glance, then followed after his friend.

Sherlock stalked past Lestrade and Sheila, who were speaking in front of the store. Lestrade looked up as the detective walked away towards the street. "Sherlock!" He called. "Where are you going?"

"You've got a lead," Sherlock said. "This is boring."

Sherlock stepped out into the street and hailed a taxi. John started to follow him, but Sherlock shut the door without saying a word and motioned for the cabby to drive on, leaving John standing in the street, confused.

_To Be Continued..._


	5. 5: Everything About Her is Wrong

**A/N: **Hey everyone! So sorry it's been so long again! :P I've been busy, and got stuck again. XP But, thanks once again to sherlock'sthename, I am now unstuck. :D

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**Disclaimer: **Yeah, I know I don't have to keep saying this, but it's kind of fun trying to come up with a new one each time, and in case someone really thick comes across this... I do not own Sherlock, or any characters from the BBC show. Sheila and the plot is all that belongs to me.

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Chapter Five: Everything About Her Is Wrong

John stared after the taxi, trying not to feel hurt. Sherlock just needed some space, that's all. It wasn't the first time he'd done that. John turned and walked back towards the shop. Lestrade and Sheila were still talking, but they both looked up at John as he came over. "Where's Sherlock going?" Lestrade asked.

John shrugged. "Probably back to the flat. Look, I'm going to go find another taxi and see if he's there." He looked at Sheila. "You coming?"

Sheila stared at him blankly. "Coming where?"

John frowned. "To the flat."

Sheila blinked. "What flat?"

John's frown deepened. What on earth…? "To our flat. To Baker street? Where we live?"

Sheila blinked again, then her expression darkened and she shook her head. "I know where you live," she said, scowling. "And no, I'm not coming. Unlike some people, I don't just drop a case for no good reason." She turned away, stuffing her hands into her coat pockets and stalked back towards the shop.

Lestrade looked at John, a quizzical look on his face. "What was that all about?"

John shook his head. "What was what all about? Sherlock or Sheila?"

Lestrade looked at the empty street where Sherlock had gotten into the taxi, then towards the shop. "Both."

"I have no idea," John said. He sighed. "I wish I knew."

#

John drummed his fingers nervously on arm of his chair, looking down at his phone to see if he'd gotten any new messages.

Nothing.

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. Five hours since Sherlock had left the crime scene. Five hours of no word from him.

Normally, he wouldn't be too concerned. Sherlock was Sherlock. Not letting anyone know where he was was not abnormal. Being gone for hours was normal.

But Sherlock wasn't acting normal, and that scared John.

John checked his phone again, sighing. He dialed a number and lifted the phone to his ear.

After a few rings, it went right to voicemail. You've reached Mycroft Holmes. Leave me a message if necessary.

John sighed. "Mycroft, it's John Watson. Listen, something weird is going on with Sherlock. Call me back when you can." He hung up, and went back to drumming his fingers on the chair arm.

Downstairs, the doorknob clicked and the door creaked as someone opened it. John jumped up from his chair.

Sheila appeared at the top of the stairs. John bit his lip, the relief fading back into worry again. "Hello," he said. "How's the case?"

Sheila said nothing, moving into the small kitchen. She took off her coat and scarf, tossing them over the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

"Sheila?" John called.

No response.

"Is today 'everybody ignore John Watson' day?" John asked, irritation welling up inside him.

But of course, she didn't respond.

Scowling, John walked to the window. He pushed back the curtain and looked out. The street was quiet. A taxi drove by, and for a moment John dared to hope it was Sherlock, but it drove past and out of view. John sighed and let the curtain fall back into place.

A crash came from the kitchen.

John whirled around. Sheila sat in a curled up ball in the middle of the kitchen floor, the remains of a glass beaker shattered around her. Her arms were raised over her head in a self-protective gesture.

John ran over to her. "Sheila! What…"

"No!" A hoarse cry came from her curled up form. Her voice had lost its sarcastic edge. She sounded like a frightened child. "Leave me alone!"

John knelt down beside her, being careful to avoid the glass. "Sheila, it's John. Look at me."

"Please," her voice trembled. "Leave me alone, I don't want to…."

"Sheila!"

Sheila looked up sharply, her face pale and her eyes wide with fear. Her gaze was unfocused for a moment, but fixed on John. "John….?"

"Yes," John said, his voice calm and steady. "It's alright. You're fine. What happened?"

The fear and vulnerability in her face snapped close and her emotionless mask went up again. "Nothing," she snapped. "I'm fine. I just… bumped the table and the beaker fell off." She stood up abruptly, her foot brushing the little pieces of glass, which made a tinkling sound. "I'll clean it up. Have a broom?"

John stood up, examining her. A moment ago she'd seemed like a lost, terrified child, and suddenly she was Sherlock Holmes again. "Sheila, are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," she said, her voice hardening into a very Sherlock-like edge. The voice that threatened to do something drastic if you kept prying.

John walked around the table and fetched the broom, still watching her. She ignored him, not meeting his gaze. He handed her the broom and she snatched it from his hand, sweeping up the broken pieces in a few short, hard strokes.

"Sheila," John tried again. "I'm a doctor. Can I -"

"There's nothing wrong with me!" Sheila snarled, straightening up, her eyes glaring at him. She dumped the dust pan into the garbage can and shoved the broom back into John's hand, then snatched her coat and scarf from the chair and stalked away, up the stairs for her room.

John blinked, staring after her. What the… He shook his head and returned the broom to its proper place, then went back into the living room. He checked his cell phone again, half-absentmindedly. Still no new messages.

What was going on?

#

A few hours later, John looked up from his laptop screen at the sound of a taxi door slamming shut outside. A moment later, the door opened downstairs and someone started up the stairs.

"Sherlock?" John called, closing his laptop.

"Which one?" A voice muttered, then the consulting detective appeared at the top of the stairs and stalked into the room, his hands deep in his pockets.

John debated whether or not that he was supposed to answer that question. After a brief awkward pause, he decided to move past it. "Where were you?"

"Does it matter?" Sherlock tugged of his coat and scarf and tossed them at his chair.

John stared at him. "Of course it does! I was worried about you…"

Sherlock whirled to face him. "Why? Because I missed a vital clue? Because an 18 year old girl who shouldn't even exist outsmarted me?"

John shook his head. "Sherlock, just forget about it. Everyone makes mistakes…"

"I don't!" Sherlock turned away, snatching his violin from it's case and sitting down in his chair, glaring down at the instrument.

John swallowed, unsure what to say.

Uncomfortable silence descended. Sherlock plucked at the strings on his violin absentmindedly, glaring at the wall.

John knew it was a risk to mention her… but something was definitely going on with Sheila. "Sherlock," he voiced, waiting a moment to see if he would look up.

He didn't.

John continued, a bit uncertain. "Um, Sheila came back before you did. And, um…." Sherlock didn't seem to be paying attention, but John continued anyway. "I think… I think there's something wrong with her."

"Of course there is!" Sherlock exploded, finally looking up. The look on his face made John instantly regret speaking. Sherlock picked up his bow, gesturing with it angrily. "Everything about her is wrong!" He set the bow to the strings and started bringing it back and forth, punctuating the air with sharp, angry sounds.

John watched the bow move back and forth in a flurry of movements, saying nothing until Sherlock lowered the violin. "Sherlock," John said quietly. "I know you probably don't want to talk about it, but I'm here when you need me."

Sherlock didn't look up at him. "I don't need you."

John blinked, taken aback. Sherlock lifted the violin and started playing again, a classical piece John vaguely recognized, or would have if he'd paid attention to it.

John tried his best not to be hurt, tried to understand that Sherlock was angry, and that he shouldn't have tried to talk to him about it. He tried to just brush the comment away; tell himself that Sherlock hadn't been serious.

He couldn't.

He clenched and unclenched his hand on the armrest of the chair, then stood up abruptly. He walked over and grabbed his coat, slipping it on and going down the stairs.

John's foot had just touched the first stair when the violin abruptly stopped. "John? Where are you going?"

"Does it matter? You don't need me," John said, his voice laced with bitterness he almost regretted. He shook his head and slammed the front door in the middle of Sherlock's second "John."

#

John knew he shouldn't be angry with Sherlock. He stuffed his hands in his pockets as he more or less stormed through the park. He huffed, the frigid air turning his breath into a visible grey cloud.

He closed his eyes. He shouldn't have stormed off like that. Sherlock hadn't really meant that.

But it had hurt more than anything else Sherlock could have said to him.

John took a deep breath and glanced down at his watch. He'd been gone for over half an hour now. He turned and started walking back towards the flat, suddenly realizing how cold it was getting.

He reached the flat and rushed inside, immediately feeling warmer.

Raised voices came from up the stairs.

John cursed under my breath. "I knew it was a bad idea," he muttered and ran up the stairs, flinging the door open.

Sherlock and Sheila sat on opposite sides of the room, Sherlock in his chair and Sheila on the sofa, both shouting at the other. John literally could not make out a word they said; they were talking so fast. He caught a few words like "the acid dissociation constant" and "conjugate base."

Sighing a little, he shouted, "You two are worse than a couple of three year olds!"

Sherlock and Sheila both started, looking up at him in complete surprise. "John," Sherlock started.

John rolled his eyes. "And I am not your mother, and I am not going to deal with the three year olds. Just keep it down to a civil level, please." He turned away and walked into the kitchen, still fighting to forget Sherlock's words a little while ago.

Silence came from the room behind him. He opened the fridge, but glanced back into the living room to see what the two were doing.

Sherlock and Sheila both stared at each other, neither saying a word.

Finally, Sherlock started, "According to Dorothy Mary Hodgkin…"

Sheila leaned forward. "You know Dorothy Hodgkin?"

Sherlock blinked. "Well, of course. Her work in protein crystallography is invaluable."

Suddenly they both started speaking rapid-fire again. John blinked and looked back and forth between the two of them. Both of their faces were eager, their eyes lit with the ecstatic look John had seen in Sherlock's eyes whenever he was on a "truly interesting" case.

John shook his head, and started making himself a cup of tea.

Sherlock and Sheila's conversation was so fast, John wondered how on earth they could understand the other. Taking his cup of tea, he stood in the doorway of the kitchen and watched them for a minute, still unable to catch more than a few clips of words.

"Moles?" He asked, finally deciding to jump in. "Like the animal?"

The two stopped mid sentence and turned to stare at John. A low, half-laugh came from Sheila, and Sherlock smirked.

John felt his face grow warm. "What?"

"A mole, John," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, I know." John glared over his mug of tea.

"A mole as in the measurement," Sheila said, smirking. She leaned back and folded her arms. "One mole equals 6.02x10 to the 23rd atoms. Everyone should know that."

John scowled. It was bad enough when he had one Sherlock to make him feel like an idiot. "Right. Sorry. Stupid me."

Sherlock huffed once, and John almost thought he heard him mumble something about "lesser minds" under his breath. He turned back to Sheila, and they began their conversation again. John stalked over to the table and sat down, flipping open his laptop.

For a while, he stared at the blank screen of the "new post" option on his blog. He wasn't sure how to even begin to explain what was going on with Sheila.

"John?"

John started and looked up. Sherlock and Sheila had stopped their conversation again and they were both looking at him again. He took a sip of tea, trying to mask the annoyance he still felt at being made look like an idiot. "What?"

"We were just discussing what our next step should be," Sherlock said. "What do you think?"

"Um." John took another sip of tea, then set the mug down on the table. "I'm not really sure what to think really. I…" He broke off abruptly and shook his head. "No. Don't mind me. I'm the ordinary person in the room. You two geniuses figure it out." He snapped his laptop shut and pushed his chair back. Taking his laptop, he started up the stairs. "I'll be in my room."

"John?"

Behind him, John could hear Sherlock get up and follow him. He stopped in the middle of the stairs, clenching his jaw. "What?"

"What's the matter with you?" Sherlock asked. John didn't look at him, but he could hear the genuine confusion in his voice. Of course he wouldn't know. Wouldn't understand. "We agreed to work this out together. And now your favourite new pastime is storming out of the room like a mad bull."

John let out a harsh laugh. "Right. Well, when you want to start working together, let me know." He started walking again, but only got up another two steps before Sherlock stopped him again.

"John? What…"

"You yourself said you don't need me," John said, fighting to keep his voice flat. "Why would you need my lesser mind?"

"John, I didn't… I didn't mean… I…." Sherlock's voice wavered, confused. "You wanted to… talk. About… I can't, I don't do that, John."

John said nothing.

"I'm sorry."

This time, John turned around, shocked. "What?"

Sherlock scowled. "I'm not going to say it again." His scowl faded. "You were just trying to help."

"Do you want me to?" John asked, quietly. "Help."

Sherlock nodded once, curtly. "Yes."

John nodded back, sighing, feeling the tension drain away. "I shouldn't have stormed off like that. I'm sorry."

Sherlock shook his head. "Now are we going to stand here on the stairs all day, or are we actually going to do something about Sheila?"

John smiled. "The game's on."


	6. 6: The Sherlocks Holmes and Dr Watson

**A/N:** Sorry once again for the bit between posting! :P I'm nearly done with the next chapter though, so hopefully it'll be up soon!

**Disclaimer: **It's too late for me to think up anything creative. Don't own Sherlock.

* * *

Chapter Six:

The Sherlocks Holmes and Dr. Watson

The next few days were interesting, to say the least. If John had thought his life with one Sherlock had been interesting, adding Sheila to the mix only made things more complicated.

Sheila seemed to be affected by the same rapid mood swings Sherlock was. One moment she was bright-eyed and eager on the trail of something interesting, but as soon as it was over, she'd be squabbling with Sherlock over who got to lay on the couch.

John noticed that whenever Sheila seemed to be in a good mood, and he got along with her, Sherlock would be in a foul one. When Sherlock and John got along, Sheila would be the one moping. And when Sherlock and Sheila got on… well, John tried to stay out of their way.

They still hadn't received any word from Mycroft. Anthea wouldn't even let them know where he was, or what he was doing (not that John had expected to get much out of her). John had suggested trying to contact their family in Yorkshire, but both Sherlock and Sheila had reacted negatively to the idea.

Ever since Sheila's collapse, John tried to keep an eye on her. He was hesitant to actually approach her about her letting him examine her, because he knew she'd refuse. She was Sherlock after all.

If Sherlock noticed Sheila's… condition, he made no mention of it. Sometimes in the middle of an argument, her face would go blank and she'd have no memory of what she was saying. Or she would forget things seemingly without cause or reason. What made John the most concerned, though, was the nightmares.

Sleeping on the couch, he could hear her up in his room. He would lay on his back, his throat constricting, and listen to her cry out for whatever it was she was dreaming about to stop. He considered going up to help her, but the thought of going into a teenaged girl's room while she was sleeping didn't sit well with him, and he didn't think she'd appreciate the gesture either.

So he would lay there, trying to fall asleep, his heart hurting for Sheila as he remembered the fear and loneliness of his own nightmares.

#

A gunshot fired. And then another.

Sherlock slammed the door closed and bolted up the stairs, pulling his own gun out, ready to see what the trouble was… he stopped when he got to the door. "What the…"

Sheila slouched in his chair, feet stretched out on John's, her eyes closed. Her right hand held a gun, which was aimed at the wall with the smiley… which he could clearly see had new bullet holes adorning it, ones he knew he hadn't put there.

"Sheila, what on earth do you think you're doing?"

Sheila didn't bother to open her eyes. "Bored," she mumbled.

"But… but…" Sherlock sputtered. "You can't shoot the wall! That's what I do."

The door opened downstairs. Sherlock knew it had to be John, who would just be returning home from the surgery. He heard the footsteps quicken and a moment later John appeared at the top of the stairs. "What's going on?" he asked, looking from Sheila to Sherlock.

Irritated, Sherlock turned to him. "John, will you please tell Sheila she can't shoot the wall."

Sheila fired another shot, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Uh, why?" John asked. "You do it all the time."

"Exactly," Sherlock said, exasperated. "It's my wall."

Sheila fired again, opening her eyes to look at Sherlock, her smirk growing.

"It's actually Mrs Hudson's wall," John said, an annoyingly amused look playing across his face. "And if you can shoot Mrs Hudson's wall, then Sheila can, too." He moved past Sherlock and went to pick up his laptop.

"But… but… John."

Sheila moved her feet so John could sit in his chair, but made no move to get out of Sherlock's chair. Ignoring him completely, she raised her gun again.

Sherlock fired at the wall before she could. She opened her eyes and smirked again. "Would you like to have a shooting match, Mr Holmes?"

John closed his eyes. "Oh, gosh. Here we go."

Sherlock gazed at her coolly. "Only if you don't mind being shown up."

"Really," John sighed. "Are we really going to do this?"

Sheila and Sherlock stared down at each other for a minute, then Sherlock said, "John, you'll be the judge."

"Ah, no," John said, drawing out the word. "I'm staying out of this."

"John…"

"Nope."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest further, when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and looked down at it. "Lestrade," he said, sending off a quick response. "Case for us. The match will have to wait."

Sheila smirked. "You're just putting off the inevitable."

"Not my fault Lestrade can hardly handle a case without me," Sherlock said, turning to John. "Coming?"

John sighed, having just gotten settled. "I suppose." He closed his laptop and went to fetch his coat. He paused. "Do you think I'll need my gun?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Probably not. Just a crime scene."

John shrugged and pulled on his coat, looking at Sheila. "Aren't you coming?"

"Wouldn't want to get in the way," she said, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

"Good," Sherlock said, starting down the stairs.

John sighed again. "Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped and looked at him. "What?"

John cocked his head towards Sheila.

Sherlock glared at him, knowing full well what John wanted him to do.

John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock grit his teeth. "Sheila, do you want to come with us?" He growled, a look on his face like every word tasted disgusting.

Sheila grinned. "Since you asked so sweetly." She bounded out of the chair, newly enthused with energy. She slipped her coat over one of the new button down shirts Mrs Hudson had bought for her, tucking her gun in her trouser waistband. She started down the stairs and slipped past Sherlock, flashing him a sweet smile on her way down.

Sherlock glared at John, who looked back at him innocently. "What?"

"Why did you do that?"

John retained his innocent look. "What?" He went down the stairs, giving Sherlock a gentle shove. "Come on."

Sherlock flipped his coat collar up and sniffed, still irritated, but went outside and got into the taxi Sheila had hailed.

#

As before, Sherlock and Sheila refused to say a single word to each other, leaving John to sit in awkward silence between them. They pulled up in front of a tall office building, but John grabbed Sherlock's coat sleeve before he could get out. Sherlock looked at him, frowning.

"You can pay for the taxi this time, thank you," John said, climbing out after Sheila and ignoring the scowl on Sherlock's face.

Sheila started towards the building, where squad cars were parked out front and Lestrade stood waiting, his arms crossed. John waited for Sherlock, then they started after Sheila.

"Thanks for coming," Lestrade said, looking at Sherlock and John first, then Sheila. "Thought this one might get you interested." He turned and walked into the building, the three following him.

He lead them towards the lift, and once inside, pressed a button the floor. "Lenny Wallford was an investigative journalist for the local paper. Janitor found him dead in his office early this morning."

They reached the top, and the lift doors slid open. They followed Lestrade into a small office. In the middle of the room, a body lay stretched out on the floor, face down.

"Doors locked from the inside, I suppose," Sheila said, walking towards the body.

Lestrade nodded, glancing at her. "Should I ask how you knew?"

"Second to the top floor, obviously not suicide, and you wanted my opinion," Sherlock said. He moved towards the window, taking out his lense and peering down at it. "And before any of you ask how I know it's not suicide, it's easy to tell. He couldn't have shot himself in the back of the head."

"Yeah, thanks," Lestrade said, folding his arms. "I'm not a complete idiot."

Sherlock muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like "Could have fooled me." Sheila snickered and John rolled his eyes.

Sherlock turned away from the window, a slight frown on his face. "You're sure the door was locked from the inside when the body was found?"

Lestrade nodded. "The janitor said he had to force it open."

Down by the body, Sheila frowned, too. "Why would the janitor force it open?"

"Said he heard a loud noise and came up to investigate," Lestrade said.

Sherlock moved over towards Sheila and knelt down beside the body with her. "Any enemies?"

"That's the funny thing," Lestrade said. "You'd think a journalist would make enemies at one point or another, but as far as everyone I've spoken to this morning could tell, he didn't have any. Didn't have friends either. He was apparently wasn't an unpleasant man to work with, but he usually kept to himself. Unmarried, no kids. Only child; parents died a few years back, no other living relations that we've found. I have some people searching right now."

Silence elapsed as Sherlock and Sheila examined the body. Sherlock pulled on his gloves and lifted the man's wrist, looking at the tan marks. Recently out of the country. Wore a watch the whole time. Not on vacation then. Most likely on assignment, on a tight schedule.

Sherlock glanced up at Sheila, to see if she was picking up on the same things he was. She stared at the body, a blank look on her face.

Afraid that she was perhaps going into one of her 'fits', for lack of a better word, Sherlock spoke up, keeping his voice low so only she could hear him. "Sheila? What do you think, Brazil or Argentina?" He knew of course, but wanted to see if she did.

"Do you think he was lonely?"

Sherlock blinked. "I don't know. I don't see what this has to do with the case…."

Sheila shook her head. "Nothing. Never mind."

Sherlock stared at her, trying to figure out what she had meant.

"Argentina, most likely," Sheila said, looking up and around the room. Sherlock followed her gaze, past the closet behind her, towards the desk in the middle of the room. "Knick knack on his desk, along with…" She frowned. "Hold on."

Sherlock looked at the knick knack she'd spoken of. He had seen before that it had been knocked over, with papers strewn all over the desk, but his eyes widened slightly as he realized what she was getting at.

"No known acquaintances or enemies," Sheila said, quickly. "Kept to himself. Recently on a trip to somewhere in South America. Smuggling ring?"

"Killed on the second highest floor on the building, only door locked, no marks of entry from the window," Sherlock said, staring at Sheila as he started to piece the puzzle together. She stared back, and he saw the same realization in her eyes the second it hit him. "The murderer is still in the room."

He sprang to his feet, a second too late. The closet door banged open behind Sheila. She dove to the side but the cocking of a gun froze her in place.

"Great, you got it right," the man who had just got out of the closet growled. He reached down and grabbed the back of Sheila's collar, dragging her up on to her feet.

John and Lestrade started, both reaching for their guns, but John realized he had left his behind at the flat, and the man pressed the gun to Sheila's head. "Hands in the air! Reach for your gun and I'll shoot the girl."

Lestrade froze, then he raised his hands. John followed suit.

Sherlock hesitated. The man glared at him. "I mean it, buddy. Hands up or your daughter dies."

Sherlock scowled, and raised his hands. "She's not…"

"Shut up," the man snarled. He looked down at Sheila. "Now, you're going to come with me nice and quiet-like, and we're going to leave the room. Try any funny business…"

"And I die. I got it. Thanks."

The man pulled back on her collar, and grabbed a fistful of her hair at the nape of her neck, yanking her head back to look up at him. "And no clever talking back. You remain silent. Got it?"

Sheila stared at him blankly. "I feel like I'm supposed to answer 'yes', but you're holding my hair too tightly for me to nod..."

"Very funny," the man snarled. He pulled her back by her hair, sending little rockets of pain along her skull. He started moving towards the door. "Any of you try to follow me, and she dies."

"Yes, you've said," Sheila remarked dryly.

The man stopped and looked down at her. She smiled sweetly up at him, then banged her forehead against his. He stumbled back, releasing her in surprise.

Sherlock, John and Lestrade burst into action, Lestrade drawing his gun and John and Sherlock bursting forward towards the man and Sheila.

Sheila grabbed the man's gun arm and twisted it behind her back, using the momentum from the twist to spin out from under his arm. He recovered and tried to pull his gun away from her, but she held on tightly, refusing to let go.

Sherlock reached them first, and grabbed on to the gun as well. The man released it, and Sheila and Sherlock both stumbled back a half-step from the release of pull. The man grabbed Sheila's arm and wrenched it behind her back. She let out a small cry of pain.

John tackled the man, knocking him into the wall and forcing him to release Sheila's arm. Lestrade and Sherlock aimed their guns at the man. John wrenched the man's arms behind his back and clapped a pair of handcuffs on him that Lestrade tossed him.

"Come on," Lestrade said, grabbing the man's arm and shoving him towards the door. The man struggled and started to pull away. John grabbed the man's other arm and they headed downstairs.

Sherlock and Sheila paused a moment to catch their breath. Sheila massaged her wrist. "Thanks."

Sherlock nodded. "You alright?"

Sheila nodded back. "Fine. I don't think it's sprained."

"John will probably want to look at it when he comes back," Sherlock said. "He's rather fussy that way."

They stood in silence for a moment, then Sheila bit her lip. "Were you…" She trailed off.

"Was I what?" Sherlock asked, looking at her strangely.

Sheila stared at the floor and a moment passed before she finally asked, "Were you lonely, before you met John?"

Sherlock stared at her, feeling taken aback. "What? Why?"

Sheila kept her head down. "No reason," she said too quickly.

Sherlock watched her. He hated talking about feelings of any sort, but loneliness especially. She was 18. He remembered his 18th year all too clearly. Lonely. Yes, he had been lonely, though he hadn't really thought of it. He hadn't let himself feel weak emotions like that. A few months after the Fight with Mycroft, the Rift in the family… Yes, he had been lonely before he had met John. "Are you lonely, Sheila?"

Sheila said nothing for a moment, but she looked up at him, and looking into her eyes, he saw it. He saw she knew, and he knew.

After a minute, Sheila said, "Do you think I have a John?"

Before Sherlock could answer, footsteps sounded in the hallway, and John appeared in the doorway. "You two alright?" He asked, looking at them. "Thought you'd have come downstairs by now."

Sherlock shrugged. "Just discussing something."

Sheila said nothing, but Sherlock could almost feel her relief of him not saying anything of what they had been discussing. It's not like it was something he wanted to talk about further.

"Right then." John walked over to them. "Now, want to explain what exactly happened?"

"Wallford recently returned from a trip to Argentina," Sheila started.

"Easy to tell by his tan line, knick knack on his desk and Argentinian Pesos also on the desk," Sherlock said.

"He kept to himself," Sheila continued. "Not a highly suspicious activity on its own, but…"

"He was not short on cash," Sherlock said. "Clothes, watch and shoes too expensive than his salary as a journalist would be able to afford."

"Maybe his family was well-off?" John asked.

"Family was all dead," Sheila said. "And if his family had been well-off, he most likely wouldn't be writing for a second-class paper, a job he didn't particularly like."

"Hold on, how could you tell that?"

Sherlock walked over to the desk and picked up a piece of paper covered in numbers. "A countdown for two months from now, when he would have made enough money outside of the paper, and he could resign."

"Okay," John said. "I think I'm following. But who was the man in the closet? Was he the one who murdered Wallford?"

Sheila nodded. "He must have been Wallford's contact here. He would bring over the drugs, or artifacts, or whatever it was he was smuggling, and sell them to that man. They must have had a falling out while agreeing on a price, and the man murdered Wallford when he turned his back to him."

"Any further questions?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. "How both of you can keep up with each other like that."

Sheila and Sherlock exchanged glances and smirked. "We're the Sherlocks Holmes," Sheila said. She smiled and headed towards the door. "Now come along, Dr. Watson. I don't know about you, but I wouldn't mind a bite to eat."


End file.
